


An Echo of the Days of Pleasure

by imachar



Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: M/M, Shameless Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-14
Updated: 2013-11-14
Packaged: 2018-01-01 13:45:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,194
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1044658
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/imachar/pseuds/imachar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A very young Chris Pike has an encounter with a young and not yet married George Kirk.</p>
            </blockquote>





	An Echo of the Days of Pleasure

**Author's Note:**

> Un-beta'd, feel free to point out any egregious errors.
> 
> Inspired by all kinds of things including Thor II; Rush; Bear Island and lots of 1980s TV movies...

Chris Pike has never been under any illusions about his ability to score – he was fifteen the first time he used his winning smile and lithe good looks to entice someone older and more experienced into bed – but he thinks he might be about to out do himself this time. As he shoves open the door of the base locker room, shaking snow off his parka and shivering as the ice on his beard melts and slides down under the filthy thermal survival suit that hasn’t been off his body for the last week, he can see George Kirk emerging out of the steam of the shower area and his entire body thrums at the sight of all that powerfully muscled – and very naked – flesh on display.

George grins at him, just a hint of seduction in the laughing blue eyes. “Hey kid, you ready to get cleaned up and go have some fun?” There’s something so utterly endearing about George’s enthusiasm – for everything – that Chris lets himself revel in the flush of warm desire that fires up through his body and he really hopes that this isn’t just a tease, because it has been a long, lonely summer and he’s been lusting after George from a distance for most of it. Still, the fact that the object of his desire is standing in the locker room buck naked and utterly shameless about it suggests that the evening might be headed in a very promising direction and Chris grins back and redoubles his efforts to extract himself from the tightly sealed thermal gear and heavy snow boots. “Been ready for the last month.”

It’s not a lie. Chris and George have spent the last twelve weeks supervising the Academy’s third year summer survival course, each of them posted at a rudimentary check point high up on an unnamed glacier on Carter’s Earnest getting progressively filthier and furrier as the summer wore on. When they’d first started meeting up once a week to co-ordinate the telemetry drop for the cadet performance data, Chris hadn’t been sure if George’s teasing was an indication that he was genuinely interested in Chris, or just playing with him. The jibes about him being a fresh-faced ensign had only added to his confusion – and had resulted in a rash and slightly ill conceived decision to forgo beard-repressor for the rest of the summer. But with a little time, and the occasional shared appreciation of George’s clandestine stash of high-quality Dominican weed, the teasing had lost its edge and softened into something much closer to flirting and Chris had started to feel less like a raw ensign and a little more like a peer.

Still he’s not sure about the beard.

Chris has only just turned twenty-one – newly graduated from the Academy and waiting for his first ship assignment – and, as he drops his parka on the floor and begins to peel off the survival suit, he pauses to scrub a hand through the unaccustomed fur on his chin. He’s never grown a full beard before and he’s not sure that this one has been a total success. It’s a little too fine and silky with a disconcerting red undertone to it, and as he studies himself in the mirror for a moment and then glances across to George, he envies the thick, blond masterpiece that is gracing the young lieutenant’s face. But then George has five years on him. Going on twenty-six and about to sign on as third on the Anaximander, George is one of Starfleet’s fastest rising stars, and he embodies everything Chris wants for himself, smart and confident and already set on a career that will see him make captain in record time.

He can feel himself flush as George smiles at him, curious and calculating. “Okay, well get moving, the BOQ is under renovation so we’re sharing one of the VIP residence units.” George is pulling on a pair of clean jeans, and Chris experiences another little jolt of electricity at the casual way he tucks away his cock and zips up the fly before fishing in the pocket of his parka for a note. “21C, out past the generator complex.” He wrinkles his nose and shivers as he pulls on a clean thermal shirt. “Weather’s gone to shit. I’m going to pick up food from the mess and we can hide out for the rest of the night.”

George pauses, one eyebrow raised, and it takes Chris a moment to figure out that it’s probably because he’s made no further progress on shedding his clothes. He hesitates for a moment, Chris is not normally at all shy about his body or his looks, but then he’s not usually undressing in front of a fucking Norse god. George has to be close to two meters tall and he’s got a frame that looks like it’s carrying a hundred kilos of solid muscle, with abs that look like they’ve been carved in oak and wild blond hair that’s entirely too long for fleet regulations, if any one cared this far off the beaten path.

Chris on the other hand is well aware that he still has – as his mother recently reminded him – the metabolism of a rabid squirrel. No matter how much he eats, his body isn’t quite ready to convert that fuel into the muscle that will eventually pack bulk onto his frame and he’s got a few years yet of being lean and long and spare and looking like he’s barely out of high school. The wiry strength in his long limbs and the knowledge that he can bench press twice his own weight doesn’t do anything to stop him from feeling entirely inadequate in the face of George’s considerable physical assets. He hesitates for a moment longer and George’s smile goes soft and understanding. “Take your time, kid.” He pulls on a fleece and layers his parka on top before heading for the door. “You want steak and fries and salad? It’s about the only meal the commissary on this base doesn’t totally fuck up.”

“Sure.” Chris has shaken himself out of his insecurity and peels off the last layer of thermal underwear with a wince at the reek of unwashed body and chemical heating blocks that comes off the fabric. “And dessert maybe?”

“Dessert it is. There should be pie at least.” George pauses with his hand on the door. “And I’ve got a bottle of tequila in my kit.” He casts a long, interested look at a now naked Chris, the desire in his eyes no longer veiled, his grin wide and entirely too confident. “So we’re good for the next twenty-four hours.”

Chris feels the heat flush in his face as George’s grin widens, his eyes merry as he watches Chris’s cock twitch and begin to rise and Chris has to take a long, steadying breath as he resists the urge to wrap a hand around his length and soothe the sudden pulse of heat in his groin. It really has been a very long summer, with only his left hand for company, and the thought of spending the time until they shuttle out tomorrow indulging himself in living out the weeks of varied, inventive fantasies that he’s had about this man, is almost more than his body can handle.

Still, he restrains himself, until George grins one last time and starts to back out the door. “See you in a few, kid.” He makes a brief, obscene gesture with his hand. “Go ahead and take the edge off.”

And then George is gone, which is just as well Chris thinks, because he’s blushing so deeply that he can feel the heat radiating off his skin and his cock is thrumming hard enough to bounce lightly against his belly and leave sticky threads of pre-come clinging to the wiry curls that trail from his navel to his groin. He shudders as the need to come skewers down through his body, and he wraps a hand around his cock, reveling in the feel of his pulse beating in his palm. And then he remembers that he’s standing in the open foyer of a communal locker room and while it’s very unlikely that he’ll be interrupted this late at night, it’s probably not the best place to indulge in a fast wank.

The shower is heaven. After twelve weeks in the field, making do with the occasional spit-bath and a sonic wand that only lasted two weeks in the face of constant sub-zero temperatures, even the need to masturbate takes a back seat for a few moments as Chris stands under the spray, hands braced against the tile wall as the scalding water scours away all the grime and sweat and fatigue of the last three months.

Still, he’s a healthy twenty-one year old, and it takes less than ninety seconds for his cock to start thrumming hard enough to get his attention. He leaves one hand splayed flat against the wall and leans forward as he slides the other all the way down his belly and over his groin, until his fingers are cupped around his balls and his palm is pressing hard against his erection.

“Oh fuck…so good…” There’s no one else in the locker room so he can be as loud and verbal as he likes and he sets up a fast, hard stroke with the heel of his hand as he groans through a litany of profanities in half a dozen languages. He’s shaking as he gets close, switching up his grip so that he’s fucking his fist in a fast, jackhammer stroke that’s just a little too rough given that there’s no lube but hot water. Still, as proficient as he is with his hand, it’s his imagination that finally pushes him over the edge, his whole body shot through with a flash of fire as he imagines what that incredible cock – he’s only seen it semi-hard but he’s pretty sure it’s a fucking monster when it’s ready for action – is going to feel like as it ploughs him open.

For a long moment he holds the mental image of himself spread out on white sheets, his face in the pillows, his ass in the air as George fucks him through the mattress; until he comes, with a long, low whine of relief, his body spasming as he spends himself against the wall of the shower, spattering the tile with thick threads of translucent come. Panting and shivering he milks a last few fat drops of semen from his cock, reveling in the silky slickness as it slips over his fingers and grinning as he leans his forehead against the wall with a slow exhale.

After a few seconds of recovery time Chris shakes himself, turns off the water and goes in search of a towel and his wash kit. It takes him longer than he expects to divest himself of the beard, it’s long enough that it needs to be trimmed before he can use the laser-shaver on it, but when he’s done, he grins at the face looking back at him in the mirror; he is _so_ ready to go get laid.

The weather is indeed shit and by the time he makes his way past the deserted Base Officers’ Quarters and finds VIP cabin 21C hidden away between the base generator and the motor pool, Chris is freezing again. But when he pushes open the door to the cabin he’s hit with a wave of heat and light and an enticing view of George Kirk, sprawled on a long, wide couch and naked but for a pair of dark flannel sleep pants. He’s holding a beer and grinning widely. “Took your time kid, I was just about to start without you.”

While his smile indicates that George might be thinking sex, the way he dips his head towards the coffee table and diverts Chris’s attention to the two plates of steak and fries, and a third generously covered with half an apple and blackberry pie, suggests that his immediate concern is food. If he hadn’t come within the previous twenty minutes Chris might be inclined to argue the point but, with the door closed firmly behind him and his parka and boots in a heap on the floor, the smell of the perfectly grilled steak is enough to override his libido for a while.

After the steaks are dispatched, George generously gives up most of the pie to Chris, taking a third beer in lieu of dessert and sprawling out across the couch again while Chris tries not to pay too much attention to the thinly stretched fabric across George’s groin and the way that it really doesn’t hide the slowly growing bulge beneath. Fortunately the pie is good enough to keep him focused on food until the plate is clean and then as he sucks down the last of his beer George leans over and takes the empty bottle out of his hand.

“Now.” With the bottle laid aside, George has both hands free and he tugs Chris close, one hand curled into the thick curls at his nape, tilting his head until Chris finds himself looking into the bluest eyes he’s ever seen. Then George wets his lips in a way that makes Chris’s blood head south at an alarming rate, before it all heads north again and he flushes with embarrassment as George grins, “Christ, you’re pretty now I can see your face.”

He’s not used to being _pretty_ and Chris’s first inclination is to turn away and avoid George’s amused gaze, but he knows that’ll just make him look vulnerable, which is exactly what he _doesn’t_ want right now. So, with a moment’s pause to gather his courage he moves, mimicking George’s hold, one hand curled around his neck, fingers curled into the long blond hair and he tugs hard enough to make his intention clear. George’s eyes go wide for a brief moment and then he capitulates, leaning in until his mouth is just brushing Chris’s, feinting at a kiss, lips teasing at each other until Chris loses patience and closes the distance between them. There’s a fleeting battle for dominance which ends, to Chris’s surprise, in a tie; each of them taking turns to explore and taste, this first kiss stretching out, long and deep and _filthyhotwet_ as they both submerge themselves in it.

When Chris comes up for air he’s gratified to find George breathing as hard as he is, and as he slides closer, throwing a leg across George’s thighs, he can feel the hard length of a huge cock pulsing beneath the thin flannel sleep pants. George groans, “Jesus, kid…where’d you learn to kiss like that?” and tucks one hand into the back of Chris’s jeans, tugging at the fabric and running one finger down the cleft of Chris’s ass in a way that makes him hump George’s thigh and whimper in surprised need.

“I’ve had plenty practice.” No longer embarrassed, his confidence restored by the kiss, Chris straddles George and strokes his hands up across the broad, flat planes of his chest, fingertips skating across already peaked nipples, gratified when George’s breath hitches slightly at the touch.

“Yeah, I can see that.” George reaches out to hold both of Chris’s wrists in one powerful hand and, his eyes merry with his customary enthusiasm, he uses his other hand to tease at the hem of Chris’s sweatshirt. “So, let’s see what else you’ve got under here.”

Chris shivers as the wandering hand trails up his belly, fingers teasing through the fine hair that feathers across his abs and then groans as George reverses direction and slides the fingers under the waistband of his jeans, going just far enough to brush the ends of them across the damp tip of Chris’s straining cock.

“Oh fuck, too many clothes.” Chris draws in a shaky breath and goes to slide off the couch, standing so he can get to work on the fly of his jeans, surprised when George reaches out to stop him.

“My treat.” George grins as Chris frowns in confusion. “Huh?”

“My treat. I’ve spent the whole summer waiting to peel these fucking clothes off you. You take care of the sweatshirt, I want to unwrap the rest.” Chris has to laugh at that, he’s never been a _gift_ before, and he thinks it’s kind of nice, in an odd way. So he does as he’s bidden, pulling the sweatshirt off in one long wriggle that elicits a sigh of appreciation from George and the brief touch of a wet tongue applied in a long sweep from his navel to his sternum. “Beautiful.”

Chris shivers, distracted by the tongue which has now moved on to a nipple, a tease spiced by just the hint of teeth, before the pressure of George’s fingers at the buttons of his fly makes him groan and press his hips forward. As the last button yields to George’s deft touch, the mouth disappears from his chest and Chris feels the hot, damp trail of breath down the midline of his abdomen, the brush of soft hair on his skin as George drops his head and, with no warning whatsoever, deep-throats Chris’s fully erect cock. For just a second Chris thinks he might come on the spot. No one has ever taken all of him on the first pass before, and the second slide and swallow makes his toes curl as lightning sparks up his spine.

“ _JesusfuckingChrist_ George, fuck…” His voice pitched a little higher than normal, Chris really hopes that he doesn’t sound like a fifteen year old getting blown for the first time, but he’s not convinced, especially when George laughs around his length, and the vibrations make him whimper softly.

His knees are beginning to shake and he has his fingers curled tightly into George’s hair, trying to stay upright when George finally releases him, pulling off with an obscenely wet sound that sends another shock shivering up Chris’s spine.

“You want to come like that?”

Chris hesitates for a moment, there’s a part of him that can think of nothing he’d like more than to come down George’s throat, to fuck that gorgeous mobile mouth until he shudders to climax, until he can feel George swallow around his cock as he pours himself out in one long, exquisite pulse of wet heat. But, as tempting as that thought is, what he really wants is something altogether more intimate and he holds the sharp blue-eyed gaze as he confesses. “No, I want to come with your cock in my ass.”

Gratified when George’s eyes widen and his grin goes incandescent with delight, Chris goes on, confidence sliding through him, warm and reassuring, “I want you to fuck me so hard I’ll feel you inside me all the way back to Earth.”

George has slid back up onto the couch and he’s sitting, splay-legged in front of Chris, his cock plainly visible through the thin flannel of his pants, the fabric rising in a slow arc. He’s lost the grin, his expression intent and focused, as he reaches to pull the cord on his sleep pants. “Fuck, you have a filthy mouth on you. You sure you want this?”

Chris is equally intent, his heart tripping fast as George spreads the fly of his pants to reveal a cock that has to be at least twenty centimeters long, curving up away from the defined ridges of George’s lower belly in a smooth, thick arc. Chris reaches for it, wrapping his fingers around the shaft, his own cock thrumming at the feel of hot, silky skin and a rapid, steady pulse beneath the surface.

“You think I can’t handle it?” They’re teasing each other, not a hint of animosity in the exchange, and Chris steps closer to straddle George’s knees, sinking down slowly to kneel on the couch even as he’s maintaining a slow stroke up and down the trembling cock, getting a measure of it, imagining the burn, the slow, aching stretch as George sinks in to the hilt.

“Kid, I’m damn sure there’s nothing you can’t handle.” George pulls him down, flush into his lap and wraps one huge possessive hand around Chris’s hip to hold him in place. “I just watched you tough out twelve cold, tedious and occasionally terrifying weeks camped out on the side of a glacier. I have no doubt you are one tough little son-of-a-bitch.”

Chris isn’t sure about being called _little_ – although in comparison to George he does feel a fraction insubstantial – but the fond respect in George’s eyes makes him grin and lean in, one hand braced on the flat planes of a broad smooth chest, as they meet in a slow, searching, deeply lascivious kiss.

As eager as Chris is to achieve his second orgasm of the night he lets George set the pace and, once he gets his impatience under control, finds that there’s something deliciously indulgent about a slow build to actual fucking. They spend an age just wrapped together on the couch, George’s broad hand around both their cocks, not even stroking, just squeezing firmly as he rubs his thumb slowly across Chris’s glans, the slick of pre-come providing just enough lubrication for him to keep the tease pleasurable. And leaning into George’s heat and bulk, Chris lets himself get lost in the slow, sweet pleasure of deep, open, _slickwet_ , kisses.

Chris is panting quietly against George’s neck, his mouth pressed to the damp, thrumming pulse spot under his jaw when one long, finger finally traces it’s way down the cleft of his ass. Just a brief exploration at first, rubbing from coccyx to perineum, skirting the shallow indent of his asshole, although the muscle flexes even at that close proximity and Chris feels the trembling quiver as George laughs quietly beneath him. “You ready for this?” The finger returns, slick this time, pressing very gently at the ring of muscle.

“Fuck yes.” Chris presses back, his breath hitching as George returns the pressure and the fingertip slips into the tight, clasping channel, pressing against the rim for just a moment before he slides deep to the second knuckle.

“Oh fuck.” George’s voice has taken on just an edge of desperation and it’s Chris’s turn to laugh as he pushes back harder, forcing himself to relax into the stretch as the finger twists inside him, searching, pressing firmly against the inner walls until it finds its target. Chris goes breathless as George strokes confidently across the smooth swell of his prostate – the sudden flash of lightning in his veins rendering him mute and unexpectedly pliant as he wraps his arms around George’s shoulders and rests his weight on the strong body beneath him.

“Oh yes, that feel good, Chris?” George is resting his cheek on Chris’s head, and Chris is panting softly against the base of his throat, shuddering as George continues to finger-fuck him in slow, deep strokes. He whines softly in lieu of a reply and curls closer when George curves one arm up his back, fingers of his free hand teasing in the too-long hair at the nape of his neck. “That’s good, isn’t it?”

Chris licks a stripe up the base of George’s throat and manages a quiet. “Oh god, yes…good.” And the lick turns into a long, suckling kiss against George’s Adam’s apple when a second finger slowly presses in alongside the first. It’s been an age since anyone has finger-fucked Chris with this kind of leisurely, concentrated attention to detail and the sheer intensity of the pleasure makes him whine and shiver and rest his forehead on a broadly muscled shoulder.

“You feel un-fucking-believable, Chris. Goddammit, you're so tight.” George curls the fingers of his free hand into Chris’s hair and tugs his head back up until they’re face to face, and Chris is lost in the sharp blue intensity of his eyes.

“Need to fuck you.” George grins, feral and intent, and tugs just a little too hard on Chris’s hair, making him squirm in discomfort even as his breath hitches in desire.

“Please, yes…just fucking _do_ it…” And he knows he’s sounding much too needy, but he can’t help it because he really, really wants George to fuck him… _now_.

“You sure?”

“Dammit, George…I’m not a fucking virgin…just fuck me.” Chris appreciates that George is just making absolutely sure of his consent, but he’s shaking with the need to come, with the need to feel George stretch him open and fuck him until they’re exhausted, until they’re lying sweat-soaked and wrecked on the floor.

The couch might not be the ideal place for a first fuck, but they are both strong and athletic enough to make it work and as Chris stretches up and then lowers himself down onto the thick, lubed length of George’s cock he arches back and trusts to the strength of the steel-banded arm that wraps around to hold him upright.

For a long moment Chris stops breathing, the stretch and burn of penetration making his heart race and his whole body shiver with a perverse mix of pain and pleasure.

“Shh…shhh…” George’s hand slides up and down Chris’s back, gentling him until he’s breathing again and Chris sighs, leaning in to rest his weight on George’s body as he settles just a fraction closer and takes in the last centimeter of that fat cock.

“Oh… _jesusfuck_ …you’re big.” It comes out as a groan, a series of stuttering syllables that register almost half an octave lower than Chris’s normal speaking tone, and he buries his face in the curve between George’s neck and shoulder in a futile attempt to stifle any further embarrassing declarations.

But George just laughs, using his grip on Chris’s hair to twist his head and bring him in range for a kiss, all wet, aggressive heat as they fuse together, moving slowly at first, until Chris gets used to the friction and fullness of George buried deep within him.

It doesn't take long, not nearly as long as Chris might have liked. Despite the fact that he knows they’re going to do this again tonight, and perhaps a third time before they finally sleep, and almost certainly at least once in the morning, he still wants this first time to last. But there’s too much anticipation, too much pent-up need for this to be anything other than a fast, hard race to orgasm.

Chris comes first, shaking as his cock spasms in George’s tight grip, spraying semen across both their bellies in a hot, slippery splatter and then, as his whole body clenches and shakes with the aftershocks, he feels the deep shuddering groan as George goes rigid under him and with one last powerful thrust he’s flooded with slick heat.

His recovery is slower than usual, and when Chris is finally coherent and conscious again he pushes away from George – who has gone limp against the back of the couch – and rests his hand over the sweat-slick skin of his chest. Heart still thundering, George manages a smile and one eye slits open as he shifts his hips and Chris whines restively as his body finally releases the slick, soft length of George’s cock.

“You are one hell of a fuck, kid.” George’s voice is gratifyingly rough, layered with fatigue and lazy contentment, and Chris relaxes, settling himself more comfortably into George’s lap and letting himself be drawn into a warm, comfortable embrace.

They’re both quiet for a while, just relaxing in the aftermath of deeply satisfying sex, and Chris is getting drowsy by the time George finally breaks the silence. “How long has it been since you gave it up like that?”

“A while.” There’s a hint of reluctance in Chris’s tone, he’s not entirely sure he wants to have this conversation right now. Not sure he wants to admit just how much he wanted George over the course of this long, tedious summer. But George is persistent, nudging Chris’s head up until they are looking at each other and stroking his fingers slowly through the generous spread of chest hair that has only just filled out in the last year. “What, months?”

Chris shrugs and then squirms a little as George plays a fingertip across his ribs. “A year, maybe.”

He gets a raised eyebrow and a teasing smirk in response as the fingertip wanders on to stroke a line down his abdomen. “Should I be flattered? Exactly what does it take for Ensign Christopher Pike to let someone fuck his ass?”

Chris hesitates, he knows what he’s about to say is conceited as hell, but it’s also the truth, “It needs to be someone I want more than they want me…”

George laughs, “Arrogant little shit-head.”

“I’m not arrogant, I just know what I want and I know how to get it.” It’s not the entire truth, Chris is self-aware enough to know that he has a few control issues that he still needs to work out with his Starfleet-appointed counselor, but he _definitely_ doesn't want to waste time on that conversation tonight.

“You, Mr. Pike are going to make a very, very fine Starfleet commander.” And then George laughs again and strokes his thumb lightly across Chris’s cheek. “And a very, very fucking pretty one. Damn Chris, everyone in the fleet’s going to want to fuck you now that you’ve graduated.”

Chris flushes and grins, more flattered than embarrassed. “Yeah? Well, you netter make the most of the next twenty-four hours then. I’m all yours.”

*****

It takes eighteen months for the names of the Kelvin’s dead to be added to the black granite of the Starfleet Memorial wall and Chris is there when they hold the brief dedication ceremony for the new shiny curved panel that holds the names of the nineteen officers and crew that perished at the hands of a still unknown assailant. He stands at the back of the crowd, his dress grays adorned with his fresh new commander’s stripes and with bowed head, he thinks about the laughing, confident, charismatic man he’d come to know on Carter’s Earnest seven summers before.

He doesn’t miss George per se; they hadn’t known each other well enough for that, one night of uncomplicated passion and then a few friendly drinking encounters at starbases over the years. But he can still mourn the loss of potential, the loss of a good man, the loss of someone’s husband, someone’s father. As he looks up he can see Win Kirk, her blonde head uncovered as child she’s holding plays with her gray service hat – and he winces at the slump in her shoulders, and the pain in her face. A second child stands next to her, tow-headed and solemn, old enough to understand what he’s lost and Chris resolves yet again to never let himself become too attached, to never become the missing husband, the missing father, to never leave behind a family the way he and his mother were left.


End file.
